I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.

He is a waste of space .He paces around the four walls all day,moving into them as easily as he could move out. Waiting, thinking and smiling into nothingness. The shadows look through him and the people look into him.To him none of this matter other than those eyes. Those luminous green eyes that seek him, haunt him, lure him. It’s the madness that ignores him and the ignorance that engulfs him.

He vows never to go back yet he never looks beyond either .He drifts to nowhere, changing sides and flipping places like the two sides of a pancake. He stops occasionally, but only for the mere mortals to call out to him and say “Look there ! There he is, he is a waste of space.”